


The MSBY Black Jackals Read Thirst Tweets

by isaksara (syailendra)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Annoyances to Annoyances with Benefits to Lovers, Atsumu Is Not a Single-Target Horndog, Getting Together, Kagehina and Bokuaka are In Love and Embarrassing About It, M/M, Pining Atsumu, Social Media, The Safe Word is 'Onigiri', the mildest of d/s, there's nothing really graphic but everyone is really h word all the time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23289055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syailendra/pseuds/isaksara
Summary: Sakusa’s eyes are very dark naturally, sucking in all surrounding rays of light and crushing them in his pupils. For an athlete, he is rather pale. His lips look very pink in comparison. Atsumu is suddenly catastrophically aware that in this instance, ‘accent’ is a euphemism. “Good enough for your Olympic-size ego, Miya?”(In which Atsumu realizes that he is attracted to Sakusa Kiyoomi in the most inconvenient way possible.)Now with gorgeous gorgeous art byQuip/pseudoanalytics!
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 265
Kudos: 6329





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what is this new obsession with Sakusa really about? Is it really about getting a volleyball spiked up his ass?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started out with a 'hmmmm i guess i should TRY writing canonverse, you know, just to see if i can manage to not put these kids in situations where they end up with life-threatening injuries' and then for some reason all my stupid came out to play. fml.
> 
> CREDITS TO [sarishinohara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarishinohara) FOR 1) the Osamu thirst tweet and its consequences, and also 2) Twitter user Dumbass Hinata! Those are all her! Without her input I would've just gone on writing 10000% Legit Actual Miya Dique Thirst (my own) so, we are all thankful that's not how it played out

“I hope I’ve done enough good things in life to be rewarded by waking up on the rolling hills of Bokuto Koutarou’s pecs after I die.”

Do people think like this? Atsumu is suddenly forced to confront the reality that people do think like this. Then they put these wretched ideas out in the world by posting them on social media. These terrible, terrible words have just left his mouth because—as the consequence of the thoughtless social media-using, Bokuto’s pecs-loving masses’ actions—this thought is now on a piece of paper in Atsumu’s hands, which he must read out on camera. _On camera_. His mother will watch this video. Kita will watch this video. Osamu will watch this video, then he will make sure his mother and Kita end up watching this video.

“Wow, that’s sweet, Bokuto-san!” Shouyou goes. He is beautiful but in times like this even he makes Atsumu want to die.

“It is, isn’t it?” Bokuto seems equally enthused about the degenerate state of the world. His voice is at least a thousand decibels louder than strictly necessary. “But Twitter user Meian Shugo’s cumsock! Did you know? _Did you know_? You don’t have to die! My boyfriend, Akaashi Keiji, wakes up on the rolling hills of my pecs all the time!”

Atsumu looks at the floor and mouths the words _Meian Shugo’s cumsock_.

“That’s also really sweet, Bokuto-san!” Shouyou goes on, completely oblivious to the crablike sideways motion of Sakusa in his chair, who appears to be trying to put as much distance between himself and his three teammates as possible. Unfortunately he is limited by the size of the video frame, a boundary enforced by the stern glare of the cameraman. 

Atsumu is still trying to wrestle his soul back into his body. He had wanted adoring fans when he started playing professionally. Somewhere, a finger had curled in on a monkey’s paw.

“ _Moving on_ ,” Sakusa says with a cough, looking like he very much wishes they did not have anything to move on to. They have not allowed him to wear a mask for the duration of his video. Atsumu has never seen his mouth for so long in a non-game setting, and the shape of it is admittedly unsettling. There’s a cruel twist that remains there even when his face is completely neutral. Like now, when he is reaching into the bucket and unfolding a piece of paper.

Sakusa stares at it. He adopts the face he makes whenever he disapproves of the way Atsumu unwraps his store-bought onigiri, which is every time. Atsumu thinks it’s because he doesn’t carry around a tiny bottle of seventy percent ethanol hand sanitizer with him all the time like Sakusa does. He had asked him whether this was the case—Sakusa had not answered—then told him not everyone can be a freak like you, Omi-kun, and Sakusa had stepped on his foot. It turns out Sakusa Kiyoomi is capable of focusing most of his strength in his heel. Freakish feats of the freakish body—go figure.

“Well, Sakusa-san? What is it?” Shouyou’s eyes are wide. They sparkle.

“Yes! Read it read it read it read it read it.” This is Bokuto, no doubt already thinking of another anecdote about his boyfriend, Akaashi Keiji, to share with the class.

Sakusa inhales sharply and spares Atsumu a narrowed sideways glance.

“Did you see that setter dump just now,” Sakusa says without a question mark. “Atsumu hi you are free to ram your sixteen-inch accent in my throat until I choke, then keep thrusting, shut me up baby. Hashtag Jackals vee ess Adlers.”

“Atsumu-san!” Shouyou turns to him, beaming, two palms in the air. Atsumu high tens him. Oh yeah. Now we’re talking.

He spins to point an accusing finger right in Sakusa’s chest. “Omi-omi, couldya find a _more_ unsexy way to read that line? You’ve never heard of a thing called intonation?” He leans forward. Sakusa leans back.

Sakusa narrows his eyes even more and they engage for a stare-off for about ten seconds to the sound of Bokuto and Shouyou egging them on. The position is not starting to strain his abdominals, because Atsumu is a professional athlete with exceptional core muscles. 

“Fine.” 

Sakusa leans forward a little. He destroys the perfect parallel alignment of their torsos. There’s that twist of his mouth again. “Atsumu, you are free to ram your sixteen-inch accent into my throat until I choke,” he purrs. Sakusa’s eyes are very dark naturally, sucking in all surrounding rays of light and crushing them in his pupils. For an athlete, he is rather pale. His lips look very pink in comparison. Atsumu is suddenly catastrophically aware that in this instance, ‘accent’ is a euphemism. “Good enough for your Olympic-size ego, Miya?”

Atsumu straightens up. He ignores the heat rising to his treacherous face. _Osamu is going to watch this video._ “Yeah, that’s how ya do it.”

“Okay now it’s _my turn,_ ” Bokuto announces from the other side of the frame, having missed Atsumu’s experience of being sucked through a wormhole and spit out as a shredded glob of human flesh. “Ooh, my disciple! It’s about you! Look: I need Hinata Shouyou to crush my windpipe with his perfectly tanned thigh muscles and beep me so hard I emerge from the ground in Rio! Wow!”

“Did you just censor yourself,” Sakusa says.

“There are children watching, Sakusa-san,” Shouyou responds earnestly. Sakusa protests this. The video will be entitled _thirst tweets_ , he argues. Shouyou ignores him. “But also, whoever this is, uh, at Hinata-ta-tas, I don’t want your throat to be crushed by my thighs. We won’t be able to have any fun afterwards!”

Shouyou does have very nice, sun-browned thighs. Atsumu steals a glance at them. Fun. Shouyou is all about fun, unlike Sakusa, who is all about not-fun.

“We should have fun all the way to Rio, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu’s mouth supplies without the input of his brain. Shouyou grins beatifically at him. His teeth are ever so slightly crooked; his smile is unbearably adorable.

“With your sixteen-inch-accent, Atsumu-san?”

“Yep!”

“ _Get a room._ ” Sakusa’s teeth are audibly clenched.

Shouyou opens another slip of paper. “Oh, to be Miya Atsumu, receiving dirty looks and biting insults from Sakusa Kiyoomi whenever you’re within ten meters of him,” he says. He laughs, bright and carefree, and Atsumu can’t even be mad at him. Bokuto joins in on the chortling.

“How is _that_ a thirst tweet?” Atsumu demands. Sakusa grumbles something about Atsumu being shrill.

“Wait, Atsumu-san! There’s a follow up!” He clears his throat. “I wonder if Sakusa smacks Miya with his abnormally flexible wrists? OH TO BE MIYA ATSUMU.”

Atsumu cranes his neck to look at the paper in Shouyou’s hands. The capital letters, they are there in the tweet. Real monkey’s paw stuff. He would _not_ enjoy getting smacked by Sakusa. Who would enjoy that? First of all, that’s not even widely accepted as sexy, like spankings are. Second of all, Sakusa wouldn’t even put any energy into it. There’s going to be such an intense lack of enthusiasm that the shockwave from it would shut down all the BDSM clubs in a seventy-kilometer radius.

“Oh my god can Kiyoomi-kun just spike a wickedly curving volleyball up my ass already? Asking for a friend,” Bokuto reads.

“That is—horribly unhygienic.” Sakusa sounds like a robot that’s short-circuiting. While being strangled with its own cables. “Not to mention—completely physically impossible.”

Would Atsumu enjoy being smacked by Sakusa, if Sakusa was passionate about it? But then that wouldn’t be very Sakusa-like, would it?

Shouyou chimes in without missing a beat, having unfolded another piece of paper: “How do you look at Sakusa’s marble countenance and luscious curls and not want him to spit in your mouth, intense germaphobia notwithstanding? Oh wow, Sakusa-san, you’re on a roll!”

“I’d like to get off this roll.”

Marble countenance. He is rather statue-like, in a way. It would be fitting for him to be very stoic. Atsumu takes back the bit about no enthusiasm. Sakusa’s the type to carry on with his conversation like nothing is happening while you blow him under a desk. He would hit you with a riding crop and not even spare you a glance.

“Augh,” Atsumu says in despair. Somehow he has arrived at the point of thinking about giving Sakusa head under a desk. Does he want to do that? Really?

“You okay, Atsumu? How ‘bout you read out the next one?” Bokuto shoves the bucket of tweets in front of his face. Gingerly, Atsumu picks one out. Please don’t let it be about Sakusa, he prays to Kita’s gods. Please, if he has done anything good in this world, ever, don’t make him read out a statement of concentrated horniness about the teammate he may be having horny thoughts about (the jury is still out).

It’s about Sakusa. It is true that Atsumu has never done anything good.

“If Sakusa Kiyoomi choked me with his hands then spritzed hand sanitizer on them afterwards I think I’d actually come untouched,” he forces out. Despite Atsumu’s earlier effort to wrestle his soul back into his body, it has now decided to take a permanent vacation. He glances at Sakusa, who grimaces like he’s been told to take a bath in a dumpster.

“These thirst tweets seem really painful,” Shouyou observes, astutely. “Is that what people are into these days?”

“My boyfriend, Akaashi Keiji, says all kinks are valid!” Bokuto has reached into the cursed bucket again. “Ah. This one is better! It’s from Twitter user Dumbass Hinata. Oh, that seems mean.”

“What does it say.” Sakusa, having recovered from his dumpster bath, rejoins the conversation. 

“I hate Hinata Shouyou’s stupid perfect receives and great emergency sets and lightning spikes. I’m going to beat him to the ground and kiss him on the mouth.” There’s a moment of silence. Atsumu squints. “That seems contradictory. Am I using that right?”

“Yes, Bokkun.”

“Twitter user Dumbass Hinata?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Who could it be,” Shouyou says, because he is absolutely brilliant in every way except this one.

Sakusa grabs the bucket from Bokuto and plucks out a single piece of paper, unilaterally deciding that this will be the last one. Atsumu knows because Sakusa announces this. The cameraman protests, citing the still partially-filled bucket in Sakusa’s hands. Sakusa says, a bit more loudly, that this is the last one. He looks at the cameraman like he plans to step on him on the way out of the studio. Atsumu feels a tingle go up his spine.

Oh, fuck.

“Hm.” Sakusa is actually smiling a little bit. It’s the tiny smug smirk he reserves for getting his service aces in before Atsumu. Atsumu hates it.

“Well? What does it say, Omi-omi?”

“Miya Atsumu is whatever,” Sakusa utters flatly. Suddenly the pace and tone of his voice picks up. Atsumu has never seen him this lively; it’s terrifying. “But holy shit have you seen his twin? _Hot_ , water drops emoji water drops emoji, _entrepreneurial,_ money bag emoji money bag emoji, _and he cooks_ , tongue emoji tongue emoji.”

Atsumu explodes out of his chair. Sakusa has defaulted back to his usual flat expression, showing no reaction whatsoever to Atsumu’s physical protest.

“This disrespect!” he cries, completely justified in his outrage. “Why am _I_ not heckin’ entre-pre-neurial? _Huh?_ ”

“Because you are a professional volleyball player, Miya.”

“Heckin’,” Bokuto enunciates, rolling the word around in his mouth in a terrible impersonation of Atsumu’s sixteen-inch accent. Atsumu glares at him.

“They called ‘Samu hot! _We have the same face!_ ”

“That’s true,” Bokuto mutters thoughtfully, like he’s pondering a particularly troubling philosophical question.

“And I work out more than he does!”

“Atsumu-san, I think you’re hot too, even though you can’t cook and don’t own a business,” Shouyou says, patting a calming hand on his arm, but Atsumu does not feel like being calmed down right now, not even by the tanned redheaded ninja angel Hinata Shouyou.

He huffs. “Thanks, Shouyou-kun. But these thirst tweets have been disrespectin’ me all day. Ya know what?” He addresses a sweeping glance to the other four in the room. Sakusa is inspecting his nails. “I’m done. They won’t be disrespectin’ me no more.”

He stomps off the set to the sound of Bokuto and Shouyou’s protests and the vague clattering of the remaining slips of paper in the bucket as it is being shaken in Bokuto’s large hands. The cameraman appears to have given up in trying to maintain any semblance of control over the situation.

Anyone watching the video would think he is just throwing a tantrum. This is not untrue. But also, Atsumu is making the very wise decision to leave on his own terms before these terrible fruits of the internet force him to further reconsider the attractiveness of Sakusa Kiyoomi. Does he _want_ to be choked by Sakusa, who would spritz his hands with hand sanitizer afterwards? _Does he?_

* * *

It takes him three hours to decide whether or not to call Osamu on the day the video goes up. Osamu is in Sendai, tied up in the complexities of opening another Onigiri Miya branch. He is being entrepreneurial. He is cooking. He is, apparently, hot. Atsumu is in Tokyo, having a crisis while shoving cup ramen in his mouth.

It takes him three hours to fret to himself about calling Osamu, and then Osamu renders them completely redundant by calling him anyway.

“What was that?” Osamu does not give him the time to say hi.

“What was what,” Atsumu says innocently.

“Fuck you, ‘Tsumu. What was that, in the video about the tweets. With Sakusa.”

He had hoped Osamu wouldn’t notice, but of course that had been stupid. He can still hold out hope that this is because of Osamu’s twin senses, and that no one who is not Osamu will be able to grasp what transpired in Atsumu’s head while the video was being shot.

Atsumu loads the video and looks at the comments.

**MSBABYBlackJ  
**oh my god 06:24 miya and sakusa were literally about to frick frack paddy whack

 **  
ninjashoumethemoney in reply to MSBABYBlackJ  
**forget THAT did you see miya just casually ask hinata if he was down for some dickin at 07:19

 **  
BokutoBuns in reply to ninjashoumethemoney  
**if this is what a ten minute video in a clean studio is like i shudder to think of the sexual tension in the black jackals locker room

 **  
BokutoBuns  
**no one:

absolutely no one:

Bokuto Koutarou: MY BOYFRIEND, AKAASHI KEIJI

 **  
gaybabyJail**   
Miya Atsumu is a walking talking volleyball tossing Sakusa Kiyoomi and Hinata Shouyou thirst tweet send comment

 **  
high__larious32 in reply to gaybabyJail**   
we are all Miya Atsumu. Except for the volleyball tossing.

 **  
SunaRinMoonaRin in reply to gaybabyJail  
**How is it possible for them to make a video about thirst tweets, and atsumu is still thirstier than all the tweets combined

 **  
OnigiriMiyaOfficial**   
Atsumu…

The level of mortification you find yourself on once you realize the entire internet knows you’re horny is some kind of embarrassment nirvana.

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Atsumu groans. “I was disgusted about the tweets at first, I swear, but after a few of ‘em about him I just started… considerin’ it.”

It is a given that, being a professional athlete, you are around other young people at peak physical condition all the time. Atsumu is not new to the idea that his teammates are attractive. There’s Bokuto, who, rolling pectoral hills aside, has a truly impressive back that demands attention even when he isn’t spiking. There’s Meian, who can awaken daddy issues in people who have perfectly uncomplicated relationships with their fathers. Inunaki’s fluffy head of hair. Thomas and Barnes, over six-foot-five of corded muscle. And of course, there’s Hinata Shouyou, who will wrestle all the things you thought were your fantasies from you and make them all about him.

“I guess if yer a goth, he’s got that… pale skin, dark hair thing…? Like a vampire?”

“You don’t like vampires, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu informs him. “You were Team Jacob.”

It’s not about attractiveness, is it? Being around someone attractive and being attracted to someone are two different things. Atsumu is around Bokuto, but he forgets about his physique and winning grin most of the time. Being attracted to someone is the exact opposite. He thought about Sakusa with a riding crop _once_ and now the image of him will not leave Atsumu’s brain even when the actual person isn’t around.

“He’s the one with the Tepika bottles, right? The germaphobe?” Osamu asks. Atsumu responds in the affirmative. “Does he clean, ‘Tsumu?”

“What kind of question is that.” Atsumu sighs. “Yeah, he cleans.”

“ _Hmmm._ ”

“Oh, shut up, ‘Samu.”

* * *

By the time his graduation rolled around, everyone on the Inarizaki volleyball team had had the grace to get over their crushes on Kita Shinsuke. With the exception of Atsumu, of course, because he was in possession of many things—the best setter skills in all of Japan, hair that would put a bottle of mustard to shame, and ass cheeks rounder than a pair of Mikasa volleyballs—but grace was conspicuously not among them.

Therefore, Atsumu had a plan. He had ordered a bouquet of fifty ruby red roses. He had rented a deep maroon suit and put on his father’s best brogues. He had used up Osamu’s pot of hair gel trying out several different hairstyles and arrived at the perfect combination of expensive-looking poise and rakish allure.

“Do ya need someone to tell ya that ya look like a rat?” Osamu asked. Then, without waiting for Atsumu’s response: “‘Cause I got some free time, so. Ya look like a rat.”

Atsumu stuck his tongue out at him. He was high on love and Osamu’s deliberately mean jabs would not bring him down. He would give Kita the roses, confess his undying devotion, then secure a lifetime’s supply of pickled plums and messages that reminded him to go to bed on time.

Suna yawned. “You're still planning to confess? Can you even take rejection? Don’t eat those roses when he turns you down, you hear?”

“He’s not gonna reject me,” Atsumu said. “Kita-san loves me.”

“Let him do what he wants.” Aran was smiling. It was impossible to tell whether or not he was on Atsumu’s side.

After each of the others had given their graduation gifts to Kita, Atsumu walked over to him. Kita’s appearance that day did not deviate much from the way he looked at school, but that was Kita for you. It was not that he wasn’t sufficiently tidy for his graduation; it was that he was graduation-level tidy even on regular school days.

He looked straight at Atsumu, and the noisy world went still.

The last gift exchanged between them had been Kita’s jersey to Atsumu after the Spring Interhighs, right after they’d lost to Karasuno. Atsumu had put it on and worn it home. Osamu spent the entire trip telling him he was disgusting.

Now, Atsumu put his right foot forward and presented the bouquet to Kita, who took it in his well-maintained hands. He looked at the roses with a small smile. Emboldened, Atsumu went ahead with his confession: “Congratulations on finishing high school, Kita-san. I’m sure ya have a bright and promising future ahead of ya. Throughout the years we’ve known each other you’ve been makin’ me—makin’ us all—better people. You’re the most perfect person I know. I love you.”

Kita looked up from the roses, turning his serene smile to Atsumu.

“I love you too, Atsumu,” he said calmly, but he didn’t have to elaborate. Not in that way, Atsumu knew, without another word of explanation coming out of Kita’s mouth. It was the gentlest rejection a man could give. “But why?”

“Why what?” Atsumu asked as the pieces of his heart moved up and lodged themselves in the walls of his throat.

“Why do you love me?” Kita asked. He played with the petal of one flower in his hand. “And what makes ya think I’d like roses?”

Usually, when Kita had read something in Atsumu, he’d spell it out. This time, his smile had taken on another quality altogether, one Atsumu couldn’t decipher. He should’ve known Kita wouldn’t like roses. They flew apart and dropped petals, which Kita would feel the need to clean up later. They died and became trash.

Atsumu had loved Kita Shinsuke because he was the most perfect person he knew. Atsumu had loved Kita Shinsuke because, while Atsumu got attention in the form of shrieking from the stands, he didn’t actually feel it. There was one time he’d felt like someone really paid him attention: when he’d overexerted himself, and Kita had told the team not to praise him for neglecting his health.

* * *

Loving Kita hadn’t really been about the cleaning, so Osamu is wrong. Correlation does not equal causation, hence why Osamu is now selling onigiri and not deciding economic policy, or something. So what is this new obsession with Sakusa really about? Is it really about getting a volleyball spiked up his ass?

“Whaddaya think about Omi-omi, Shou-kun?”

Shouyou has found Twitter user Dumbass Hinata and now spends most of his time scrolling obsessively through the feed. Twitter user Dumbass Hinata tweets about Shouyou approximately thrice a day. Twitter user Dumbass Hinata does not seem to realize that making an account private is a thing that can be done.

“I dunno, he’s pretty quiet, isn’t he, ‘Tsumu-san?” Pretty quiet? Sakusa spends so much time insulting Atsumu verbally that he should start listing it as a hobby on the Black Jackals official website, along with wiping furniture down using antiseptic wipes. Shouyou laughs, and Atsumu realizes his thoughts had not remained in his head. “Oh, this one… look. ‘Hinata used to be so scrawny and now he’s just all muscle.’ Is that a compliment?”

It’s an end-of-the-season party, which means they’re allowed some alcohol. Atsumu sips his gin and tonic. Shouyou has a half-empty glass of whisky. It’s spreading a wonderful mist of rose over his cheeks. Are those freckles? Atsumu cannot handle Shouyou.

“I think he’s just statin’ facts.”

“You don’t know if it’s a ‘he’, Atsumu-san.”

Actually, Atsumu _does_ know, but he amends his statement with ‘they’ anyway, just for Shouyou. Shouyou reads through the profile some more. Twitter user Dumbass Hinata is astonished at Shouyou’s growth as a volleyball player. Twitter user Dumbass Hinata is very impressed by the challenges presented by beach volleyball. Twitter user Dumbass Hinata wonders what Shouyou thinks about while he’s in Brazil and if he ever misses home and the people there.

Schweiden Adlers setter Dumbass Kageyama needs to man up and ‘fess up before Atsumu actually recklessly kisses Shouyou and ruins everybody’s lives—chiefly Kageyama’s. Maybe Oikawa Tooru’s, which would be a sweet bonus. However, ruining Kageyama’s life would ruin Shouyou’s, which would ruin Atsumu’s. Atsumu will not be kissing anyone recklessly until he’s figured out the whole deal with Sakusa, anyway.

“Sometimes I wonder what Sakusa-san was like in high school. I’ve talked to Komori-san a few times and I guess he was always like this? Prickly and stuff. I think he’s cool. He reminds me of Kageyama sometimes, the way he’s super neat with his nails. Komori-san says he analyzes plays, but I’ve never heard him do that. Although that would make him like Kageyama too!” Shouyou does this thing where he will decide someone is cool and then praise the person by comparing them to Kageyama. Atsumu wonders how it’s possible to be this dense. “Why the sudden interest in Sakusa-san, Atsumu-san?”

“Uh.” Atsumu searches his brain for a believable excuse. ‘Just scouting my enemies’ seems demonstrably false in the volleyball sense, although in other ways Sakusa is, of course, Atsumu’s enemy. ‘I think I might want to fuck him, despite his personality’ is too honest for their team dynamics to survive. So Atsumu settles on: “Tobio-kun owns the Dumbass Hinata Twitter account.”

“What?”

As intended, this wipes all curiosity about Atsumu’s Sakusa-related question from Shouyou’s mind. He has now ruined any chance he might have had with Hinata Shouyou, and for what? Present Atsumu is already disappointed with One-Second-Ago Atsumu and his big stupid mouth.

“Ya heard me. I think you should call him out on it.”

“But the account says such nice things,” Shouyou says in a hushed, awed voice. Atsumu thinks Shouyou is still beautiful but has obviously been driven insane by love.

“Well, you should confront him. He should say those things ta’ yer face, Shou-kun.”

“Right.” The look on Shouyou’s face is the one he gets just before he’s about to spike a particularly wicked set. Those are the eyes of a demon. Oh, Atsumu wants to kiss him. Pity he’s practically taken. “Right! You’re right, Atsumu-san. I’m going to… call him now, and! Demand the truth.”

He is dialling Kageyama with his phone number pad. He has Kageyama’s number memorized. Ah, love. To have your number memorized by the most versatile and attractive player of your generation. To possess absolutely no people skills to speak of and still have the social butterfly of the volleyball world fall head over heels for you in high school. Some people really do have it all.

“Imma leave ya to it and go dancin’,” he says, but Shouyou has stopped perceiving the rest of the world in general as he presses his phone close to his ear. Atsumu sighs, dejected. So that ship has sailed.

He grabs a huge bottle of water at the bar and downs it, then heads for the dance floor. Atsumu likes dancing while tipsy, mostly because it helps him sober up. Contrary to what most people may expect from him, Atsumu does not like being too drunk. There’s too much loss of control. Too much unwarranted honesty—and not of the fun, provocative kind. When he gets to a point where he knows the alcohol is affecting him, Atsumu heads for the dance floor and starts moving. Usually people would steal glances or even blatantly stare at him—that, he actually likes.

Atsumu lets the music carry his movements until he feels the beat of each song more than the thrum of the booze. It’s good. Life’s good. They’ve handed the Adlers’ asses to them on the biggest court in Miyagi and life’s good. He turns. Sakusa is leaning on one of the tables at the edge of the dancefloor, Bokuto at his side. Atsumu stops turning. He walks that way, because he ain’t no coward.

“See somethin’ ya like?”

“Somethin’,” Sakusa drawls with exaggerated relish.

“YA LIKE,” Bokuto yells, completely losing the Kansai accent he probably means to imitate, before dissolving in a fit of full-body giggles.

Atsumu hates it when Sakusa and Bokuto get along.

“Y’all Tokyo boys don’t know how to do nothin’ but ignore yer neighbors and hike up coffee prices,” he tells them a-matter-of-factly.

“Ignoring your neighbors is a skill,” Sakusa says, right as Bokuto bellows, “Coffee is worth it!”

Atsumu cannot believe that these diametrically opposed personalities could team up to execute such a perfect two-pronged attack. Is this the power of the capital city? He is going to get nowhere on the does-he-want-to-fuck-Sakusa front at this rate. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for him Bokuto spots the love of his life, Akaashi Keiji, across the floor, and starts bouncing in his direction to dance with him, leaving Atsumu and Sakusa alone. 

Sakusa is wearing a black shirt with two of its buttons unfastened. This would be quite a conservative outfit for most people, but the way his spine curves is making it fit in a frankly obscene way. His collarbones peek out from under the fabric. Atsumu briefly entertains the thought of tracing them with his tongue. Mm.

“Are ya drunk, Omi-kun?”

“No.” Sakusa raises a little flask. “I brought my own drink, but it wasn’t strong.”

Typical.

Hm. How can Atsumu approach the matter without having his pride and dignity shattered? How can Atsumu ask Sakusa, hey, when we were shooting that video with the horny tweets, were you kind of hitting on me? How can he do this without seeming like a complete idiot, is the thing.

“Are you going to ask me to have sex with you, Miya. Because if so you should probably do it soon. I plan to be asleep by…” Sakusa checks his watch. “One-thirty.”

Atsumu resists the urge to stick two fingers in his ears to check whether or not they’re still there.

“Huh?”

“Do you want to have sex with me or not?”

Incredibly, what comes out of Atsumu’s mouth is this: “Do I hafta shower first?”

Sakusa closes his eyes like he’s having a migraine and makes a dying noise, clenching his pale fists. He rolls his wrists in a way that would be painful for anyone else. Atsumu flinches. After a long, torturous second, Sakusa answers, “Yes.” It sounds like it’s being dragged out of him with hooks.

“Ya know, Omi-omi, if you don’t wanna, you don’t have to offer,” Atsumu tells him.

Sakusa just gives him a very long-suffering look he’s not sure he deserves. But they do get out of there after that, so that’s a win for Atsumu’s research purposes. Sakusa insists on going to his room because he says he can’t be sure Atsumu’s room is hygienic enough. Atsumu says fuck you. Sakusa stares at him then informs him that _hadn’t_ been an insult.

When Atsumu still wants to put his hands all over Sakusa after the latter has made them take separate hot showers, he considers the question of whether or not he finds Sakusa attractive resolved. 

“Hey, can I have a request?”

Sakusa quirks his brow at him.

“If we’re gonna do this, can ya call me Atsumu, during? It’s gonna be weird if you call me Miya. I might remember Osamu, and then no one’s gonna have fun.”

“Fine.” A hand in his hair forces him to look up, pulling sharply down. With the voice he’d used in the video shoot to throw Atsumu down a well of sexually charged confusion, Sakusa goes: “Atsumu.”

Everything goes down very quickly after that. Sakusa rides him with one hand lightly gripping Atsumu’s neck until Atsumu damn near forgets his name, so his request doesn’t even matter anymore.

After they’re done, Sakusa gets up, goes to the bathroom, and Atsumu hears the sound of the shower starting up again. Fucking batshit. He pushes his face into the pillow and drifts off, thinking Sakusa will kick him out when he gets out of the shower anyway. Whatever. It’s all out of his system now, so that’s good.

He wakes up to unfamiliar beeping.

“Nngh,” he says, hand slapping around on the bedside table in an attempt to find the source of the offending noise. Smack smack smack. Where the fuck did he put his phone this time?

“Quit that.”

His alarm is Sakusa’s voice? That’s new. Well, that’s one way to get him out of bed—wait.

Wait wait wait.

Atsumu turns. He opens his eyes. Sakusa Kiyoomi is glaring at him like he put a dead body in his bed. Which he might as well have, seeing as he failed to leave last fucking night and his germs are probably all over the sheets now. If Sakusa kills him right now, is some deranged asshole on the internet going to make a thirst tweet about the murder? One wonders.

“Shit, Omi.”

“You should go. So I can call housekeeping and have the sheets changed.”

“Right, lemme just. Peek outside? If yer gonna get breakfast ya should wait a bit after I go so people don’t get uh, suspicious.”

Atsumu pulls on his clothes from last night, then opens the door a crack. There is another door open in the hallway. It appears to be Shouyou’s, because Shouyou is standing in the doorway. In front of him is Kageyama Tobio, holding a bouquet of sunflowers. Kageyama had known Shouyou would like sunflowers. Atsumu thinks he sees tears on Shouyou’s cheeks.

He should just wait for them to go into Shouyou’s room, but Shouyou is now doing a complicated balancing act with his right arm and the sunflowers so he can hold both of Kageyama’s hands. They appear to be speaking. Then Atsumu’s stomach growls. Sakusa hisses at him to hurry it up.

“Shouyou-kun will see me,” Atsumu hisses back.

Sakusa tosses him a bathrobe. “Wear this and pretend this is your room. He can’t possibly remember all our room numbers.”

This is actually not a bad plan. Plus, Shouyou has never been to Atsumu’s room—and he never will now, what a tragedy—so he really probably doesn’t know.

“Can do. Hey, uh? Omi-kun? Thanks for last night, yeah? It was fun.”

“You too.” Atsumu glances back at Sakusa who is still in bed, the sheets spilling around his hips like in some kind of painting. The light comes in from the window behind him. It diffuses over a small constellation of hickeys Atsumu left just below his neck. “There will be no repeat performances.”

Atsumu nods, then goes outside and shuts the door behind him.

“Whoa, hey! Good morning, Tobio-kun! Finally you’ve decided to get yer head out of yer ass!” He walks past, then stops and backtracks to shake Kageyama’s hand vigorously. “Congratulations, Shou-kun. I’m so happy for you. Please teach him how ta talk to people.”

Shouyou says, “Okay! Thanks Atsumu-san!”

Kageyama, whose brain is late to the party, squawks out an outraged “What?!” as Atsumu makes his way to the elevators, humming. Ah, love. 

Shouyou’s voice rings out again behind him. “Uh, Atsumu-san? Wasn’t that Sakusa-san’s… room?”

Shit fucking cicada babies fuck.

“Nope! My room! That’s totally my room, Shou-kun, yer gettin’ pollen in yer eyes! Oh, ya hear that? That’s the sound of the breakfast omelettes callin’ my name. Yoohoo, Atsumu! Yoo-hoo! Like that. Ya hear ‘em? They can’t wait to see me! So noisy, just like my fans. See ya around, Shouyou-kun, Tobio-kun!”

He opens the door to the emergency stairs then bolts down eighteen floors. 

* * *

There are repeat performances. There are repeat performances for a whole-ass year.

* * *

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come be stupid with me on twitter if you want to (@kenmacarena)!
> 
> EDIT: so as it turns out Suna doesn't talk in a Kansai dialect. Went back and fixed that, sorry!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love life? What the hell would that be like, then, dating Sakusa Kiyoomi? There’s a konbini at the metro station, and you can catch the nine-thirty train. You can kiss any dream of having breakfast in bed goodbye, not just because Sakusa would never cook it, but because he’d kill you for spilling just one crumb on the sheets. He’d sooner suffocate you with a cloth soaked in his favorite disinfectant.
> 
> ([Quip](https://twitter.com/newttxt) made the beautiful drawing of Sakusa in this chapter!!! Look at him. No wonder Atsumu fell in love.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these are trying times so if i made you laugh i'm very happy! thank you for sharing sakuatsu joy with me. for some reason these two bring out my worst h word jokes.
> 
> fun fact yesterday after finishing atsumu's hasty escape from kagehina my brain went like uhh how are they gonna fall in love? so I had to stop there and try to actually get work done. then just as I was going to be productive atsumu and sakusa came to my house, broke down my door, and shouted THIS IS HOW WE WANT TO FALL IN LOVE in my face and I could only nod in a dumb daze
> 
> sorry for the brief mood whiplash at the beginning i promise you everything will be 100% stupid again by the end

Atsumu is going to be the reason they lose this game. 

Kita Shinsuke is getting married and Atsumu is going to be the reason the Black Jackals lose their last pre-season match. The perfectly-cut cream card arrived at Atsumu’s apartment three days ago and Atsumu is tossing too low, too wide, too fast. Kita Shinsuke will be spending the rest of his life with someone and Atsumu fails to save a ball that should’ve been his to touch. Suna sticks his tongue out from across the net, and Atsumu doesn’t even insult him back.

Afterwards, Shouyou comes to him and asks him what is wrong. Bokuto comes to ask him what is wrong. Meian, the responsible captain, asks him what is wrong. 

Atsumu once read a fun fact about giraffes—about how, when they’re old and sick, they sink down into holes in the ground and wait to die as the herd moves on. It had been his favorite fun fact for a week in seventh grade before Osamu told him he was being creepy. As Shouyou is telling him that it’s okay, next time will be better, Atsumu wishes the herd would move the fuck on and let him wait for the sweet release of death. It’s not like he doesn’t know everybody has off days, or that they’ve still got two weeks to the Division 1 V. League games. Bokuto needs to stop shouting shit that isn’t news already.

“Miya.” That’s Sakusa, standing in front of Atsumu on the bench. He’s already wearing his mask again. “What was that? What kind of sets were you making, back there? The last one I hit was completely off. If I hadn’t modified the trajectory that would’ve been like snatching candy from a baby for Komori. Next time, if you’re going to toss so weakly, do it higher so I have more potential energy to work with.”

Atsumu looks up.

“Don’t be like that, Sakusa-san. He’ll get it next time.”

“No, Shouyou-kun, it’s fine.” One of the herd members stayed behind to kick him because he isn’t actually old and dying. All he has to do is get up and walk out of the hole. “Got it, Omi-kun.”

“Good.” Sakusa nods and leaves them.

When Atsumu’s changing in the locker room, thinking of the hand-lettered invitation he’d read out loud to Osamu, Sakusa approaches him and tells him to come over later. Atsumu looks at him, surprised.

Sakusa makes an irritated ‘tsk’ sound behind his mask. “I hope just because you’ve forgotten how to play volleyball, you haven’t also forgotten how to use your—“

“Alright, Omi-kun, alright! Broadcast it ta everyone on the team, will ya,” Atsumu hisses at him under his breath.

“Hmph.” Sakusa leaves, which Atsumu appreciates in more than one way. Kita Shinsuke may be getting married, but Sakusa Kiyoomi still has a nice ass on very long legs.

When Atsumu arrives at Sakusa’s house that night, he’s wearing a fresh change of clothes. He’s just sent an e-mail to Kita saying that he’s extremely sorry, but he won’t be able to make it to the wedding on account of urgent matters that have to be taken care of in Tokyo. ‘Urgent matters’ is, of course, slang for three one-litre tubs of ice cream and a Blu-Ray DVD of Notting Hill.

“What happened today, against Raijin? That isn’t how you play.”

“Hello to you too, Omi-omi,” Atsumu grouses as he puts on Sakusa’s home slippers, then pulls out his bottle of sanitizer from his pocket to clean his hands. “You don’t wanna know. It’s stupid. Also, ya won’t be able to comfort me for _shit._ ”

Sakusa rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to _comfort you_ , if that’s what you thought. To be honest I have no idea what would make you think something like that. I need to know what that was so I can anticipate it if it happens during the championship games.”

Atsumu sighs, taking a seat at the small table in Sakusa’s living room. Logical. And it’s starting to look like they’re not going to get naked unless he spits it out, so, to avoid getting blue-balled by Kita’s freakishly lovely, intricately inked wedding invitation, Atsumu does. “Someone I had a big crush on in high school is gettin’ hitched. That’s it. Don’t even have feelings for him anymore. S’just, I remember again that I’m exactly the kinda guy he’d never fall for, and he’s the nicest man in the world, so if he can’t want me, who can?”

“Self-pity is exceedingly unattractive on you, Miya. I want you.” Yep, Atsumu thinks. Sakusa wants him the way a small dog wants the leg it’s humping. Sakusa gestures at the space in front of him minutely. “Hence, this. Hence inviting you over.”

Atsumu laughs, although it doesn’t really feel like a laugh. 

“Not like _that,_ Omi-omi. If I meant it like that, yer not the only one, trust me.”

Sakusa shrugs, also minutely. “Then I can’t help you with that. How many people have you been in love with?”

“We playin’ twenty questions, now?”

“I need to know if anyone else’s wedding is going to ruin the team’s performance over the course of this season,” Sakusa says flatly. “Or the next. Or whatever seasons we have while people are still at the age when they marry instead of having illicit affairs.”

“Nope, just Kita-san. Only loved once.”

“Good. Now take off your clothes.”

Atsumu lifts the chair a little and turns it so his whole body is facing Sakusa’s. He showered already, even, which is really quite nice of him, ain’t it? Atsumu is the nicest. He gestures at his body. “You don’t wanna do it? I just changed before I came here. These are freshly laundered and everythin’.”

For a moment Sakusa looks at him like he _is_ the dumpster he’s been told to take a bath in, but he walks over and deftly starts unbuttoning Atsumu’s shirt anyway. Meticulous. Sakusa’s hands are quick with buttons. Atsumu picked out a button-down because he likes watching Sakusa open it.

“If I’d told ya there were others aside from Kita, what wouldja do? Kill them so I won’t have to know when they get married?” Atsumu teases.

“That’s entirely too much effort.” Sakusa finishes unbuttoning the shirt and pushes it off fluidly from Atsumu’s shoulders. It drops to the floor with a sigh. Sakusa inspects Atsumu’s chest like a coroner about to start his autopsy. “It would be much more efficient to just kill you and ask Oikawa Tooru to join the Black Jackals by offering him the chance to defeat Kageyama with the help of his own significant other.”

“Ha! Yer funny, Omi.”

“That wasn’t a joke.”

Sakusa crooks a finger under Atsumu’s chin and nudges upwards. Atsumu stands, letting the motion of Sakusa’s hand guide him as it ascends. Eyes blacker than black. Two perfectly round dots on his forehead. All this, stark, against pale skin.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says.

“Yes?”

Atsumu thinks about what he’s going to say. He’s not in love with Sakusa, and Sakusa’s not in love with him, and when they have sex it can be whatever they want it to be. It can be whatever Atsumu wants it to be.

“I want it to hurt, tonight.”

Sakusa presses his thumb down on Atsumu’s bottom lip. He cocks his head ever so slightly to the left.

“In what way?”

Atsumu shrugs.

“You’re leaving it in my hands?” Atsumu nods. “Three-color code?” Atsumu nods again. Sakusa pauses, takes his hand away from Atsumu’s face. He glances downward and to the left, eyebrows a little closer together in thought. “If you want me to stop, say ‘onigiri’.”

Atsumu barks out a laugh at that. “Don’t go growin’ a sense of humor on me now, Omi-omi.”

“I’d never want you to think such a thing.”

A hand in his hair. A sharp tug downwards. Sakusa kisses to bruise.

Green, when Sakusa asks. Green, when Sakusa asks again. Green, again and again. Sakusa asks. Atsumu answers.

Afterwards, Sakusa actually bullies him into the shower. Then, clean as a whistle and higher than its tone on the afterglow, Atsumu drifts off in Sakusa’s obnoxiously large guest room while Sakusa goes to brew himself chamomile tea or something in the kitchen. He wakes up to a deluge of light coming in through the window, warming his skin and forcing him to squint when he opens his eyes.

There’s a change of clothes on the bedside table. Atsumu puts it on and goes to the living room, where Sakusa is using a neon green cloth to wipe his mahogany coffee table. Sakusa’s house is weirdly warm, despite its inhabitant. Lots of fragrant wood. Plush carpets the color of plums. Patterned cream curtains. Atsumu had thought, before he first came here, that Sakusa would be one of those people who lived in a block of concrete with white furniture that looks like it’s been 3D-printed, the only color around the faint blue-green of thick glass. The whole place always smells like something jarringly sterile, at odds with the plush feeling of the house.

“Ya have a favorite brand of disinfectant, Omi-omi?”

Sakusa doesn’t look up. He’s working on one of the table legs. “Yes. I order it in bulk.”

“Huh.”

“You can catch the nine-thirty train if you leave in seven minutes.”

“What, no breakfast?” Atsumu asks.

“There’s a konbini at the metro station.”

Atsumu chuckles to himself and goes to put his shoes on.

“Miya,” Sakusa calls out. Atsumu pauses, turns a little. Sakusa is folding the green cloth with pinched fingers. He hasn’t put his mask on because he doesn’t have to go outside yet. “We have practice in three days and the first V. League game in ten. Get it together before then.”

“Yeah, yeah. You don’t hafta tell me twice.” He walks towards the front door. Then he stops, turns one last time. “Oh, and Omi-kun? Thanks again.”

Sakusa inclines his head, just barely.

The day that greets him outside is a sunny one. Atsumu pulls out his phone and sends an e-mail to Kita Shinsuke, telling him his calendar has cleared up and he’ll be attending the wedding to wish him well. Just for kicks, Atsumu will get himself a maroon suit. He has brogues that fit him better than his father’s. And, he thinks as he runs his hand through it, he’s got the poised-but-rakish hairstyle down after years of experimentation. He winks at a passing woman, who immediately starts walking faster.

Atsumu orders a bouquet of fifty ruby red roses.

He has it delivered to Aran.

* * *

“ _Whaaat_ the hell is this,” says Aran as he flips his camera phone to shoot the scarlet monstrosity the next day. Suna’s laughter is tinny through the speaker. “My teammates think I’ve got a secret girlfriend stashed somewhere. Take responsibility, Atsumu. You gotta find me a real girlfriend now.”

Atsumu raises his two hands. “Who, me? C’mon, Aran-kun, surely that’s a piece a’ cake fer you! With your American charm and everything—hey, that’s a song, right? American Charm. _Take me to New York, bla bla bla bloo, L.A.!_ Back me up here, ‘Samu.”

“The title’s American _Boy_ , ya numbskull,” Osamu supplies, to further peals of tinny laughter from Suna. Gin joins in.

“Shaddup, it’s not like I speak English or anything.”

“Ya _barely_ speak Japanese,” Osamu mutters. On-screen, Aran guffaws. Now that they’re all far apart the team seems to really enjoy calling Atsumu and Osamu just to laugh at everything they say. Atsumu figures this is something they’ve done since high school, but somehow it’s so much more obvious over video.

“But for real, Atsumu.” Aran appears to have put his phone on some surface. “What _is_ this? Are ya about to confess yer love, like when Kita graduated? I’m tellin’ ya, I’m single but I ain’t desperate.”

Osamu answers for him, “‘Tsumu’s trying to do the throwback thing, but he can’t send ‘em to Kita, ‘cause that would be weird. And he can’t send ‘em to Sakusa, ‘cause that would be weirder. So he’s sendin’ ‘em to you.”

“And ya think _this_ ain’t weird?” Aran asks, grimacing. At the same time, Suna perks up, asking, “Sakusa?”

Of course Suna has to focus on the worst part.

“‘Tsumu was havin’ a mental breakdown after Kita-san sent the invitation, until Sakusa fucked it out of him. Or fucked him out of it. Whichever ya like,” Osamu elaborates. Atsumu smacks him.

“Atsumu, ya ho,” Gin says.

“Oi, you shut yer mouth!”

“He kinda looks like Suna, don’t he, that Sakusa? Did ya ever have a thing for Suna, Atsumu?” Aran asks, plucking one of the roses out of the bouquet.

“Ew,” Suna and Atsumu say at the same time. Atsumu squints at him, outraged. “Hey, what’re ya ‘ew’-in’ for? Besides, Suna and Omi-kun don’t look like each other at all.”

“Omi-kun,” Suna repeats.

“I give everyone in the team nicknames, whattabout it,” Atsumu says. “There’s Bokkun, and Shou-kun, and—”

“Okay, Atsumu, no need to get defensive,” Aran says, laughing. “Anyway, I really can’t tell you enough how much I don’t wanna know anything else about Atsumu’s sex life or love life or whatever. Back to the real matter at hand, huh? What’re you guys gettin’ Kita, as a wedding gift?”

They discuss. Atsumu lets Osamu speak for them as a unit.

Love life? What the hell would that be like, then, dating Sakusa Kiyoomi? There’s a konbini at the metro station, and you can catch the nine-thirty train. You can kiss any dream of having breakfast in bed goodbye, not just because Sakusa would never cook it, but because he’d kill you for spilling just one crumb on the sheets. He’d sooner suffocate you with a cloth soaked in his favorite disinfectant.

You have an off day. You get stuck on the ghost of a high school memory. He doesn’t waste any time babying you. He gives you what you need when you ask for it.

Well, shit. Atsumu is more fucked than a bunny rabbit in a warren.

* * *

Life continues normally after Atsumu figures out he’s in love with the man he’s been sleeping with for a year, which is awesome. He’s professional about it. He doesn’t bring it into their next encounter. He doesn’t leave lingering touches on said man’s arm. He leaves as requested. He doesn’t get drunk and text him maudlin messages at weird hours in the morning.

Thing is, Atsumu is an egotistical bastard and proud of it. But there’s a reason he gets called the setter who’s the most generous to his spikers, and that’s because Atsumu saves his courtesy for when it counts, such as when he doesn’t bring feelings into an arrangement with a man who would sooner eat a sock than date him. (Considering who the man in question is, Atsumu thinks he’s bringing the proper amount of weight into his metaphor.)

And if he starts calling that man Kiyoomi in his head, ain’t no one around to judge him for it.

Except Osamu, who notices the _exact_ moment Atsumu makes up his mind to do so as Atsumu is helping himself to leftover omurice in the kitchen one day, washing his hands for twenty seconds beforehand. Osamu shoots him a look as dirty as sewer water.

“Don’t. Say. A. Word.”

Osamu shrugs at him. Atsumu flips him the bird with his freshly-washed hand. Then Osamu helps him pick out an outfit for the dinner party Shouyou and Tobio has invited them to. Then Atsumu insults the outfit Osamu chooses for himself, and Osamu shoves him into a doorknob with enough precision to hit Atsumu’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.

They’re not even late to the homey event space Shouyou and Tobio had rented for the get-together. Shouyou calls it their last chance to all be friends before they start watching each other in the brackets and making threats of violence over the net. Kiyoomi is already there in a dark green turtleneck that Atsumu doesn’t even want to strip him of—he looks that good. Osamu shoots him another dirty look.

Atsumu hates being a twin. His first feast should have been Osamu, in the womb, wrapped in the umbilical cord instead of nori. Literal onigiri Miya.

It’s a little packed; Shouyou seems to have made it his personal ambition to get all the Division 1 players who had played competitively in high school into one dinner party. Atsumu knows it’s all Shouyou, because Tobio could never. The Schweiden Adlers’ prodigy setter has all the social instincts of an ostracized rock. (But then again, looking at Ushijima and Hoshiumi, this seems to be a team attribute for all players under twenty-five.)

It’s bright. It’s warm. Shouyou looks even more angelic, laughing on Tobio’s arm, evidently full of joy. Since that day at the hotel with the sunflowers, every time Atsumu sees Tobio with Shouyou, he looks like someone just handed him the actual sun after he’s been locked in a basement for years. Ah, love.

Speaking of. Kiyoomi’s on the balcony, awkwardly avoiding any of its actual architectural features. Except the floor, which he must touch by virtue of having feet. He is once again drinking from his own flask. Atsumu goes to bother him, because what else is he going to do? Make conversation with Ushijima Wakatoshi? The man’s perfectly nice and all, but Atsumu would rather eat a sock.

Kiyoomi hasn’t spoken much today. In general, he tends to resort to his annoying stares anyway.

“A lil’ quiet, ain’t you, around Shou-kun and the others?” Atsumu asks as he closes the balcony doors behind him.

“If I talk too much around them, I’ll offend them.”

“Huh. I always know I offend people. And I keep talkin’ anyway. Works out pretty well.”

“Lucky you.”

The moment sits between them. Kiyoomi has implemented a strict no-sex policy starting three days from before each League match, so Atsumu won’t be going home with him tonight. But he can still look at the way the soft lamplight falls on his face. Just look. That’s not crossing any boundaries, is it?

“Yer chatty enough with me, though,” Atsumu says as casually as he can, full of dangerous hope.

“Well, it’s not like you’ll be offended by anything I say.” Kiyoomi takes out his wipes and cleans the balcony railing before leaning on it. “We’re the same.”

“We are?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “I know you can be thick, but I should hope you’re not _that_ thick.”

“Ha ha, ya know what else is thick.” Atsumu goes for the low-hanging fruit. Kiyoomi raises one perfect eyebrow. Oh, fuck, he’s calling Kiyoomi’s _eyebrows_ perfect now. He really is in too deep. Ha, ha. Too deep. Kiyoomi squints at him like he knows Atsumu just made a lame joke in his head. 

Man, fuck this guy. Atsumu has enough snarky mind-readers in his life. “ _Aaa-nyway_ , guess yer right, Omi-omi. We’re real nasty, aren’t we?”

“If that’s what other people want to call it.”

“Hey, nasty or not nasty—they like us, ya know. The others.”

Kiyoomi smiles just a teensy tiny bit as they watch Bokuto attempt to lift Shouyou up, to Tobio’s apparent consternation. Hoshiumi’s voice carries his wish to attempt lifting Hinata Shouyou as well! Because he can do it better than Bokuto! Ushijima has taken the spritzing bottle from the windowsill and is now watering the plants. Goshiki is helping him by holding the plants up so they’re closer to the water sprays, and Komori appears to be cheering them on.

“For some reason. Lucky us,” Kiyoomi murmurs. For once he doesn’t sound facetious about his positive emotions.

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says, about to break his perfect record of professionalism.

Except Shouyou has evaded Hoshiumi’s clutches, opening the balcony doors. He leans forward, eyes bright and twinkling with a hand curved next to his mouth. Atsumu thanks Kita’s gods for the intervention. It is rare that he’s not allowed to make a fool of himself, but evidently it happens sometimes.

“I need you guys to get back inside,” Shouyou stage whispers at them. “I’m going to propose! To Tobio!”

“Oh, I thought you were going to propose to Hoshiumi,” Kiyoomi deadpans.

“Shhh, Omi-omi, stop being so negative.”

Shouyou grins terrifyingly at them.

“You can be snide about it later, Sakusa-san! _Now get back inside!_ ”

They obey. They have never ever incurred Shouyou’s wrath, but Atsumu hears it’s a situation you don’t want to be in. He spies Akaashi guide Tobio to the balcony, where Shouyou is waiting. Tobio just goes. 

When he comes back inside, he’s a bucket of tears, although his expression gives nothing else away. Slowly, like it’s a museum display rotating into view, he raises a hand, where a simple silver band encircles his ring finger. Shouyou enters behind him, also crying. The room erupts in cheers. Hoshiumi leaps, sticks the landing on the coffee table, and howls like he’s a shipwreck survivor trying to attract the attention of a passing plane. Atsumu turns to Kiyoomi, who is looking at Shouyou kiss Tobio. He’s smiling, a small and wistful thing Atsumu would have never thought him capable of just a year ago. Atsumu feels like his heart is breaking all over again. But this time it feels good.

With that, Shouyou and his lucky paramour decide to engage in that interesting pastime of the young, financially confident, and beautiful: marriage. It is a wonderful occasion that takes place a week before the finals, six months since Shouyou proposed to Tobio on the balcony. Bokuto cries all over Akaashi’s shirt. Then, when Akaashi gets up to get them both food, Bokuto cries all over Atsumu’s shirt, snot and all. Afterwards Kiyoomi refuses to unbutton it by himself—Atsumu has Bokuto to thank for the first time he ever gives a striptease. Kiyoomi still sleeps with him though, so Atsumu will let it slide. He’s always happy to learn new things.

By uniting in holy matrimony, Shouyou and his now-husband have also decided to engage in their shared, mutually-cherished, time-honored pastime. It is the thing that had really brought them together—wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting world of volleyball.

“Now, that was an incredibly clean dig by Inunaki, who passes it _beau-tifully_ to Miya! Miya sets—would you look at that form, Hirashi! And Hinata _—I mean Kageyama—_ spikes it! Score! That’s another one for the Black Jackals, unbelievable!”

“Still tripping up on that, aren’t you, Sato.”

“Right you are, Hirashi. Very recent development. Very joyful news. Oh, but the Adlers aren’t about to lie down and take it just yet! Absolutely _lethal_ serve from Ushijima—Kageyama receives it like it’s nothing! Up in the air it goes… Miya. Sakusa. Oh! Thwarted by Hoshiumi. Kageyama… pulls off an _incredibly_ nasty dump! WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!”

“I THINK YOU MEAN HINATA,” the speakers go.

“YES, HINATA. Thank you, Hirashi. Well, the husband that’s in the Adlers.”

“The setter husband, yes. That would be Hinata Tobio, now, who _just_ scored for the Schweiden Adlers.”

“This newlywed face-off comes right at the heels of his wedding to the Black Jackals wing spiker, who legally changed _his_ name to Kageyama Shouyou! Wonder what the atmosphere at the dining table is going to be like later, after one of them inevitably loses this match?”

“Hoho, good thing we won’t be around to find out, Sato.”

“Miya and Kageyama waste no time, taking their point back. And now… a service ace, from Bokuto! The Jackals are on fire today, and they’re now at set point _again_ _!_ ”

Atsumu had woken up in a good mood today. He had woken up knowing they would be facing off against the Adlers, and he had woken up knowing they were going to win. Hoshiumi serves, and Shouyou, ever reliable, receives it, sending it clear into the air. The rally is long. Atsumu ends up blocking a spike from Romero that nearly tears his fingers off.

“One touch!” he and Meian yell at the same time, and the ball is bouncing, beautifully, into Inunaki’s waiting arms. There it is. They’re going to fucking win this. The blood in his veins is singing. Crescendo, crescendo, as the Black Jackals all rise to the occasion. Bokuto soars. Meian leaps. Thomas runs up to take off. Kiyoomi has his eyes trained on the ball. Shouyou is a blur across the court, a demon out of hell. 

Atsumu spots the second the Adlers mark him—he glances once in the direction of his beautiful redheaded spiker, the apple of everyone’s eye—and tosses it at the waiting hand of Kiyoomi. Bam. The sound of it rattles in Atsumu’s skull. For a moment, Kiyoomi is suspended in the air, the ceiling lights fanning out bright beams around him, dark hair floating in gleaming spirals around his face as he descends back to Earth. The ball’s wicked spin takes it on a curved path to the spot right between Heiwajima’s fingers and the out line.

The roaring that explodes from the stands obliterates Atsumu’s eardrums, even as he joins in. The entire team floods in to huddle in a circle, each man one meter away from Kiyoomi, facing him. They cheer like a rotating donut with Kiyoomi in the middle. He doesn’t do team huddles, not even after a match point like that.

Sakusa Kiyoomi just crowned the MSBY Black Jackals Champions of V. League Division 1.

And Atsumu’s the lucky sonuvabitch who gets to suck his dick to celebrate it.

* * *

Atsumu has never made space for another person in his life. This is true even for Osamu, who had to grow up thick-skinned and strong-fisted to resist Atsumu’s constant attempts to encroach on his territory, physical or otherwise. (The threat of getting devoured in the womb might have been a real one.) His silent glares had matched Atsumu’s constant chatter. This is true even for the Inarizaki Volleyball Team, which grew around Atsumu, taking the shape of his sets, his serves. 

This is true even for Kita Shinsuke, whom Atsumu had claimed to love. Atsumu had wanted Kita to grow around him, like everyone else. Like vines, winding around a castle, blooming in the spring—still following the shapes of the turrets and the gates. Why had he loved Kita, indeed. Why had he thought Kita would like roses?

Atsumu takes his bottle of sanitizer and cleans his hands. They’re done with their celebration dinner, and Atsumu is very deliberately not drinking anything during the afterparty. Kiyoomi is allowing Bokuto to balance a shot glass on his head, although he looks like he’s being threatened to do so at gunpoint.

He catches Atsumu’s eye. With an economic motion of his head, he topples the shot glass off his hair, forcing Inunaki to dive to receive it in his palms. He makes his way to Atsumu, eyelids half-lowered, and Atsumu prepares all his reserves of mental fortitude. Admittedly it doesn’t amount to much, but.

“Well?”

“Come over to my flat, tomorrow?”

He looks unimpressed. He was probably expecting Atsumu to just get on his knees right here and—oops. New fantasy alert. So it’s not like Atsumu doesn’t want to, and it’s not like he doesn’t get how annoying it feels to expect something like that and meet a roadblock.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

" _Your_ flat?”

“Yeah. Are ya gonna ask about the ‘come over’ part now too, or what?”

“Well, since you so generously provided me with the opening—“

“Look, Omi-omi, would you just. Please?” Atsumu gives him his best puppy dog eyes. Osamu has told him it makes him look like he ingested rat poison and needs to be put down, but as everyone knows Osamu is a filthy liar. “It’s important.”

“Why.”

“You’ll find out tomorrow,” Atsumu says in what he hopes is an enticing tone.

“Why not tonight, at mine.”

“Because ya have to rest! After a game like that. I’m beat, aren’t you beat? You need yer beauty sleep. Need ta be well-rested for… other activities.”

Kiyoomi squints at him.

“ _Why_ does this matter so much to you, Miya.”

“It just does! You’ll find out why, would ya just _trust_ me?”

Kiyoomi’s face relaxes into its regular neutral-but-judgmental expression. “Fine,” he says, in a tone that says if Atsumu disappoints him again, he will find his lungs full of disinfectant soon enough. Atsumu gulps as Kiyoomi turns to join Bokuto and Thomas, who are now doing a very soulful but off-key rendition of We Are the Champions.

Kiyoomi doesn’t sing. Atsumu does, later, as they all walk to the station, his head tucked between Meian‘s and Shouyou’s as they disturb the peace by belting out Eye of the Tiger, guitar riffs and all. Somebody shushes them from a second floor balcony. Atsumu dodges an empty milk carton thrown at him from a window. He makes his way home. He goes to bed. He has a whole day ahead of him tomorrow.

* * *

Kiyoomi arrives at Atsumu’s building the next day at five p.m. sharp. He buzzes the intercom, and Atsumu opens the door and activates the lift access for him. When the doorbell echoes throughout the house, Atsumu has folded the bathrobe he bought in a perfect flat square. He has sexiled Osamu. The entire flat smells like a hospital ward.

It is the moment of truth.

Atsumu goes to the door and opens it. At first, nothing happens when Kiyoomi makes his way inside. He takes in the place. He stares at each corner for a few seconds. Maybe he’s marking potential exits. It’s awkward, so Atsumu opens his big dumb mouth and goes, “Ya never told me yer favorite brand of disinfectant, and I couldn’t find it on my own, so I looked up what disinfectant had good reviews on all websites. I bought this one. It smells kinda like the ER, right? Also I got you a new bathrobe ‘cause I know ya don’t wanna wear anything of mine. Checked the thread count and everythin’, so maybe it’s nice, I dunno, I haven’t tried it on.”

Finally, Kiyoomi turns. His eyes are wide as saucers, displaying the full devastating power of their inky depths. He looks at Atsumu like it’s the first time he’s ever seen him, except this time Atsumu might not have managed to make the atrocious first impression he had actually made back then, when he’d pulled at Kiyoomi’s mask so that it snapped back against his face.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa Kiyoomi—clean freak, Black Jackals spiker, and the thorn in Atsumu’s wretched heart—says, sounding like he’s being strangled.

Damage control. Atsumu can do damage control.

“Look, I know I made it weird, if you never wanna have sex with me again, that’s okay, I won’t be off—“

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

He doesn’t make any coherent sentences for a long, long time.

* * *

**bettermiya** Breakfast of champions.  
9 mins ago

_[A picture of Kiyoomi on the couch by Atsumu’s window, holding a bowl. He wears a white bathrobe that falls open ever so slightly. Clearly he is wearing nothing under that and there is a line of purple snaking its way up the side of his throat. His face is turned towards the view outside, so the morning light traces his profile with a glowing white line.]_

**bokuto_official** ATSUMU!!!!!!! MY MAN!!!!!!!!!!!!! WELCOME TO THE HEAVENLY GATES OF ROMANCE!!!!!!!!!

 **kitashinsuke01** Congratulations, Atsumu. Wishing you both all the best.

 **suna_rintarou** oh no youre gonna be so gross from now on

 **ojiroaran** @suna_rintarou Right? I was hoping that conference call had been a fever dream.

 **therealninjashouyou** AHA I KNEW IT I TOTALLY KNEW IT @settertobio YOU OWE ME FIFTY ICE CREAM CONES

 **hhhoshiumikourai** Enjoy that ‘breakfast of champions’, Miya Atsumu, because it will be the last one you will ever have !!

 **onigirimiya** @hhhoshiumikourai is that a threat to atsumu's life because if it is you’ll have to get in line. i’ve had dibs since the moment of conception

 **onigirimiya** you better disinfect the whole flat all over again before i come home atsumu or i’ll set fire to everything you love. including sakusa

 **bettermiya** @onigirimiya eat shit rice brain

 **onigirimiya** @bettermiya your words once again show that you really are not the ‘better miya’ you werewolf fucker

 **bokuto_official** @onigirimiya @bettermiya OMI-OMI IS A WEREWOLF?!

* * *

They get invited to read more thirst tweets, because they are champions (hell yeah!) and their last video had been insanely popular (HELL YEAH!), inspiring remixes—there’s a viral techno song entitled Disrespectin’ Me No More, and it’s wonderfully terrible—and memes all over the internet. Apparently, this stuff is excellent off-season publicity. This time Atsumu is ready. This time, to Osamu’s chagrin, Atsumu is hyped.

When the bucket is passed to them, Atsumu and Kiyoomi both race to reach into it. They pull one slip of paper out each.

Ah. The gods have decided to smile at Atsumu. At long last. They’re not Kita’s gods anymore, he thinks.

“Do you think Sakusa would mind if I borrowed Miya for a day so he can raw me until I die? Just putting it out there.” Kiyoomi speaks up first, then flicks the piece of paper out of the frame. “Yes, I’d mind. Who do you think you are. Don't put these things out there. Keep them to your nasty selves.”

Atsumu clears his throat, stretching the paper in his hand out exaggeratedly like he’s about to read out a scroll in some Victorian king's court. “Sakusa Kiyoomi is an actual Greek god put on this Earth and Miya Atsumu doesn’t deserve such beauty on account of his shit personality. In this essay I will.” Atsumu checks the back of the paper. It’s blank. “In this essay what? Ya will what? Ha, can’t even finish an essay. That’s why I deserve Omi-omi and ya don’t.”

“There’s no continuation. It’s a meme,” the cameraman says.

“Well it’s a stupid meme and yer stupid ‘cause you wrote it,” Atsumu retorts wittily—to some random person on the internet that he’ll never meet—as he rips up the tweet in his hands.

“What is _wrong_ with people,” Atsumu and Kiyoomi say at the same time.

They look at each other. Atsumu grins. Kiyoomi’s mouth twitches. Bokuto and Shouyou erupt into thunderous applause and actual literal hooting sounds.

Ah, love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a lot of fun writing this because, as mentioned, these two crazy kids just kept hauling me around by the ears everywhere they wanted to go. did you know i set out to write a romp about atsumu and hormones and ended up with him in love. go figure.
> 
> P.S.: I vaguely remember something about Aran being American although if I'm wrong take it as Atsumu being presumptuous and Aran just letting it slide because he does not want to expend the energy it will take to address it
> 
> P.P.S.: Hoshiumi's instagram personality is totally based off the inimitable @Hoshiumeme on Twitter. That account is the light of my life
> 
> P.P.P.S: Art deity [Quip](https://twitter.com/newttxt) drew Atsumu's "Introducing: My Boyfriend Who is Hotter Than Your Boyfriend, And Also V. League Champion" instagram post!!!! Quip made a version without filters and a version with filters and Atsumu is exactly the type of person who spends 179 minutes trying to decide on which one to post. It's for his 'personal brand'. Click each one for the incredible full sized version.
> 
> [ ](https://i.imgur.com/2lhf9qk.jpg)  
> [](https://i.imgur.com/SUffDDT.jpg)  
> 


End file.
